


Warlords of Draenor

by ivorytower



Series: Onslaught [2]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, onslaughtverse, warcraft: onslaught
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-19 14:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4749962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorytower/pseuds/ivorytower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the eleventh hour, Garrosh Hellscream's plans fall to ruin. His True Horde shattered, his enemies converge during the Siege of Orgrimmar. As the final blow comes down, he's saved by the mysterious and smug Kairozdormu, member of the bronze dragonflight, and is promised a way out, escape through the sands of time to a different place, a Draenor that could have been.</p><p>On an alternate Draenor, Gul'dan seeks to pollute the orcs with the blood of Mannoroth, tempting them with its power. On Azeroth, the battered remains of the Horde and the decaying pieces of the Alliance struggle to pull themselves together as another crisis rises, threatening the fragile peace established after Garrosh's disappearance.</p><p>In Outland, the survivors of a shattered Draenor attempt to resume their lives, post-Illidan and the invasion, but with the fading of Outland's power within the Twisting Nether, those lives may well be forfeit without help.</p><p>Finally, on another Azeroth, similar and yet different, a young woman comes through a devastating storm to the doors of Northshire Abbey, seeking shelter and protection for herself and her unborn child.</p><p>Four worlds, four pieces, interlocked and intertwined for the final onslaught.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Late Autumn, Year 37, Orgrimmar

**Author's Note:**

> Fic betaread by Doomhamster, with much love. <3

_Late Autumn, Year 37, Orgrimmar_

Nothing had gone as planned. Distantly, Garrosh Hellscream could hear the boom of cannons still firing, though from the splintering sounds that came after, they were not his own cannons. The incessant chittering of the Mantid had ceased, meaning their Paragons had fallen. The world was a cacophony of shouts, metal clashing on metal, and gunfire.

 _No,_ he thought to himself. _No, I will not let this be the last of me!_

It was here. Right here, the artifact for which he had commanded his forces desecrate the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, the Heart of Pride. He had already felt the creature die, beaten down and contained once more. Interfering Pandaren. Interfering _mages_. He’d hoped he’d seen the last of them.

He could hear them coming, the booted feet of the Alliance. It was what he had always believed, always _insisted_ to Thrall, for all he was gut-weak and feeble. The humans would destroy the orcs, their revenge would be complete.

...and he would never bend his knees to the pale-skinned weaklings. _Never_.

Garrosh stumbled from the throne to the Sha-blighted chest that had been placed in front of it, grasping for purchase on the chest. A voice whispered to him. Strength flooded into him as he touched it, and the voices whispered louder. _There is no reason for you to bow to these inferior creatures. You are an orc warrior of the purest people. Not these Azerothian demon-pawns, not a half-human freak. Show them the power of the Mag’har._

Garrosh grinned, and opened the chest. “Yes… he whispered hoarsely. “Give me power!”

Within lay a pulsing, eldritch thing. It had blighted the inert wood, draining all colour from it, replacing its tiny world with sickly white and depthless black. He had seen the like before, in Pandaria, at the Bell…

If only the Bell had worked. Interfering elves. Interfering mages. Interfering _humans_. He plunged his hands into the chest, and moments later, he heard the doors to Grommash Hold crash open, and soldiers troop in.

The whispering grew louder, so much louder. It filled his ears and his mouth and his nose and his _soul_. Sensation boiled through every part of him, hot, burning hot, strength swelling his muscles, even as his hands… well. They weren’t deformed if he thought they were perfectly normal, were they?

“ _Garrosh_ ,” spoke a voice, and he looked up. It was Thrall -- no, _Go’el_ , or so he insisted on being called -- clad in robes little better than rags, pointing with one bright green hand, wielding the _Doomhammer_ with the other. “You have gone too far. We are here to stop you.”

“We?” he asked, contempt seeping into his voice. He glanced around at those who had come with him. Varian, the human king. Vol’jin, the traitor. A blue-haired elf. The assassin, Garona, the only one he truly feared… and the human mage, Jaina Proudmoore. “I see you haven’t changed.”

 _Look at him, bringing in strangers…_ humans _and filthy trolls and half-blooded things,_ the Heart whispered to him. _So dependent on them. Varian is his enemy, and here he is, marching into our throne room as though he thinks he deserves to be here._

“And you, more than I could have imagined,” Go’el said, his voice thick with disappointment. “I believed you could lead, and look where that--”

“Spare me your preaching, _Slave_ ,” Garrosh cried. Go’el stiffened. “You were _weak_. You were _afraid_. You hide behind your robes and your beads and your new name but you’re a _joke_. You speak of humility, of respect, of conciliation.” Spittle flew from his mouth around his over-large tusks. “What happened to _pride_?”

“You speak of pride… are you proud of what you did?” This was Jaina. Garrosh swung his tunnel towards the human woman. Even with the Heart’s blessing, he could see that much colour had been drained from her, that pale pink skin was sickly and white. That gold had drained to silver, and blue changed to purple. He could see the tremor in her hand as she gripped her staff, and hear the hate in her voice. He let it wash over him in a wave. “Of what you did to my beautiful city, to my people… to _me_?”

“Yes…” Garrosh said, and laughed. “You let me do it. You thought you could win another defensive war. You mocked me, the ships I sent, the demands I made as Warchief… you thought you had power. You thought you were dealing with Thrall or Saurfang. You were wrong. You were dealing with _me_ , with a _Hellscream_.”

Jaina’s grip tightened. “I’ve dealt with Hellscreams before. Do you have no shame?”

“None,” Garrosh laughed again. “That is for slaves and weaklings. I have only pride.”

“You know what they say about pride,” Varian growled, drawing a great sword from his back. The human king fancied himself a wild man, contained behind a veneer of civility, a loose cannon of sorts, reined in by the presence of others, by lessons. “It goeth before a fall.”

“You prattle much for a so-called warrior,” Garrosh snarled, and took a great swing at him, his claws parried by Varian as the human’s sword flashed in his hands. “I see how much you lie, to yourself, to others. Would that I had ended your line easily, but I have heard the boy lives.”

Varian snarled wordlessly and leapt forward to attack him, and Garrosh swung his claws, only narrowly missing him. Garrosh turned his gaze to Vol’jin and sneered. “Troll. What happened to your promises to strike at me from the shadows? Are you a liar as well as a coward?”

“Garrosh, I be tired of ya noise,” Voj’jin replied bluntly. “It be over. Ya lost. Ya pure Horde is pure kodo shit. Look at what ya did to yaself to even face us.”

Garrosh growled and lunged for him, even as pain blossomed in his back. _Garona!_ He twisted, trying to find her, but the halforcen assassin was darting through the shadows, stabbing and retreating and stabbing again. “Face me!”

“No,” Garona said shortly. “I owe you nothing, Warsong. Not words, not fair combat, not even my contempt. Die swiftly.”

Distracted, Garrosh didn’t see the way Varian came in, swinging his great sword that seemed to sing for his blood. He could barely hear the droning of Go’el’s voice as he entreated to the spirits, trying to find those who hadn’t fled bloodshed and domination by his dark shamans. He caught sight of leering faces on crude wood and bone totems that Vol’jin flung down; totems that, once they struck the ground, seemed to slow his movements.

 _More! I need more!_ Garrosh thought, grasping for the Sha’s power. Strength shuddered through him, and his jaw distended as he laughed. He swung at Varian, and his arms grew longer, thicker, and more muscled as he struck him, throwing him back across the chamber.

There was no cry of alarm or concern, simply Go’el moving up to strike at him with the _Doomhammer_. It made him want to laugh again, and he did. His voice, normally pleasantly deep, came out as a mad cackle. _Not a united effort then. Not a meeting of allies. Good. Good…_

Garona stabbed into his back again and her blade stuck there. He shook her off and she scrambled away, abandoning her dagger to rearm herself with another. Garrosh took a great, thudding step forward, leering at Go’el and Vol’jin. He raised his fist and--

It began to snow. Garrosh understood snow. He had seen it in Northrend, coming in thick flakes, in tiny, dagger-like droplets, in little balls that sounded almost like rain instead of whisper-soft. Garrosh looked around. Pride wavered, giving way to Fear.

Jaina stood with arms upraised, channeling the storm. Where the elementals could not reach, arcane magic, so like that of warlocks in Garrosh’s eyes, was at the human woman’s beck and call. The snow fell thicker now, swirling as the flakes formed into weapons: daggers, like those Garona bore, pummeling fist-sized stones made of solid ice, gripping sharp fingers that dragged at his back and arms and sides. Garrosh roared, flailing at the ice, flinging it in all directions.

“Kor’kron! To me!” Garrosh bellowed, and a moment later he was gratified to hear the rushing of feet against stone. Less satisfactory was the sound of tearing cloth, the cry of fear from orcish throats, and another voice, a voice he didn’t recognize and which seemed to rest uncomfortably on his ears.

“No, you don’t!” the voice cried, and he heard a crackling sound, not unlike a thousand lightning strikes.

Garrosh grimaced. _More allies? What creatures do they bring here?_ He swung at Go’el hard, a fist connecting with his ribs. In the _Doomplate_ , he might have remained uninjured. In ratty robes that offered little protection against both elements and enemies, his ribs cracked under the blow. Go’el grunted in pain, the wind driven out of him, and Garrosh laughed.

Across the room, Jaina Proudmoore gave him an icy smile, and clenched her fists. The snow had not melted. It had gathered in drifts around him, never quite pushed out of the way by his own maneuvering, which had become uncomfortably limited since the spell had been cast. Now, the snow shook and rose up, forming into a pair of hands that grasped for Garrosh. He struck at them, dashing one into pieces, and turned to the other. The first reformed, and then gleamed. He kicked out, and found it as hard as stone.

“Snow over ice is dangerous,” Jaina told him. “It hides hidden depths and dangers. You should consider being more careful.”

“What are you prattling on about?” Garrosh demanded as the snow and ice hands gripped at him, pulling at his armour and the piercings on his skin. The cold _burned_ wherever it touched him, and he bellowed in rage.

“This is for Theramore, you son of a bitch,” Jaina said coldly, and the clouds above spun and whirled, crackling with lightning and darkening with ice. Go’el lifted his weapon high, and the lightning crawled from the clouds onto it like a spider. The _Doomhammer_ ’s head gleamed and glazed over.

Garrosh struggled hard against the unrelenting, grasping hands. From behind, Garona kicked him in the back of the knees. He cried out in agony, his leg buckling as he fell. More hands grasped at him, tearing Mannoroth’s horns from his shoulders.

“No!” he cried out. _No! Not like this! Not to these… these…_

Jaina and Varian were _human_ , weak and treacherous, the former intent to prove she knew everything better than everyone, the latter determined to wipe the orcs from the face of Azeroth. Vol’jin was a troll, a mongrel race, weak and perverted and skin-crawlingly disgusting, his habits tolerated by the too-soft Thrall. Go’el was weak, desperate for approval from someone, anyone, including taking on a new name and begging someone he disliked to do his job for him. As for Garona…

 _Everything the Shadow Council touches is poison._ That was one of the phrases she’d too often conveyed to him when she deigned to spend time in Orgrimmar. She wouldn’t kill the human king, she wouldn’t sabotage the human war effort despite the lives it cost, she wouldn’t tell him who was conspiring against him. All she would do was give him advice he didn’t want to hear, tell him that his allies weren’t the people he believed they were, and to talk more to the tauren and trolls. _You were lucky when you killed Llane,_ Garrosh thought, even as his leg throbbed from her blow. _Lucky then, and you don’t have the stomach to be an assassin now._

All pride faded from Garrosh as he saw the blow coming, and he felt hollow and empty as doom approached… and....

Stopped.

All was silent, all save for his own harsh breathing. Go’el stood above him, weapon caught in mid-swing, looking angry, disappointed, and resolute at once. _To hell with you,_ Garrosh thought bitterly. _It’s not your place to be disappointed with me._ Past him, he could see Jaina’s expression, triumphant, and something dark gleaming in her eyes. _To hell with you too, if only I’d killed you that day I turned Theramore into a smoking ruin._

On the other side of the room, Varian was frozen in mid-stride, one hand to his side, but his sword upraised, his expression of hate as ugly as the scars that marred his features. Garrosh wanted to laugh at him and did, the sound coming out oddly muted, though it was no less harsh than he intended. Vol’jin held a hand out, and Garrosh twisted to see Garona behind him, dagger ready to strike him. Her form was blurred, like a stain on a wall or a shadow through cloth, and Garrosh bared his teeth in anger at the sight. _I knew you were an unnatural creature,_ he thought bitterly. _You should have been put down, like every other halforcen freak._

“She is a strange one, yes,” a voice said, cutting through the clinging, muffling silence. Garrosh jerked his gaze towards the sound and saw an elf strolling through the room. As Garrosh had come to expect, the elf was wearing robes made of bronze and black cloth rather than leather or ringed mail, as he would see on a shaman. His hair was long and the colour of bronze, catching the eye even in a dark room. “Her parentage is fascinating, really. Such… harm has been inflicted upon her, and been inflicted by her. The sheer number of alternate timelines that spring from her actions is quite impressive.”

Garrosh looked the elf over, and his words triggered a memory, then a few. He snarled. “Dragon.”

“Oh, very good,” the elf -- dragon -- replied. “I am Kairoz, of the Bronze Dragonflight, and I am here to make you a deal.”

Garrosh stared at him for a moment longer as his mind worked: he had embraced the power of the Sha and lost. He had encouraged the shamans loyal to the true Horde to do whatever they required to break the elements to their will and lost. He had pushed out the undesirables: Darkspear and Forsaken, tauren and elf, from his city, and had used the goblins for his own ends, and he had lost. He would die here, alone, unsung, and perhaps forgotten or reimagined by future generations. The thought struck him like a hammer blow, worse than anything Go’el could have offered. From the dragon’s expression, he knew exactly what Garrosh was thinking, and smirked.

Garrosh’s expression twisted into a snarl. “What deal is this?”

“I will undo this… mistake.” Kairoz indicated his appearance with a lazy flap of a hand. “I will take you far, far away from those that hunt you. They will not find you until it’s much too late.”

“Perhaps you’ve had your head buried in the sand all of this time,” Garrosh replied bitterly. “But there is nowhere on this world I will be able to hide. Not once they realize I am missing.”

“Oh, I didn’t say you would be hiding on _this_ world…” Kairoz replied, eyes gleaming brightly. “You would be going to a very different place indeed.”

“Spit it out,” Garrosh growled. “Where would you take me?”

“Draenor,” Kairoz said. Garrosh sucked in a breath, and he couldn’t even be truly angry at the look of triumph on the dragon’s face. He knew he was ensnared. “But not the broken, ruined thing you grew up on… Grommash Hellscream is still alive and well on this Draenor, uncorrupted by fel magic. The Warsong are still pure.”

Garrosh’s mind raced. _I could see my father! I could find out what kind of man, what kind of_ warrior _he truly is… I would give much for that… but…_ “What do you ask in return?”

“Well, I need your permission to unravel portions of your timeline…” Kairoz began, his smile playful, savouring his victory. “Trust me, the other results are far less satisfying. More of a trial than a triumph. As for the rest… I simply ask you to support my own goals. They will be revealed to you in time.”

Garrosh snorted. “I’m sure. Do it.”

Kairoz bowed with a flourish. “As you command… Warchief.”

~ * ~

Nothing had gone as planned. Distantly, Garrosh Hellscream could hear the boom of cannons still firing, though from the splintering sounds that came after, they were not his own cannons. The incessant chittering of the Mantid had ceased, meaning their Paragons had fallen. The world was a cacophony of shouts, metal clashing on metal, and gunfire.

 _No,_ he thought to himself. _No, I will not let this be the last of me!_

It was here. Right here, the artifact for which he had commanded his forces desecrate the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, the Heart of Pride. He had already felt the creature die, beaten down and contained once more. Interfering Pandaren. Interfering _mages_. He’d hoped he’d seen the last of them.

He could hear them coming, the booted feet of the Alliance. It was what he had always believed, always _insisted_ to Thrall, for all he was gut-weak and feeble. The humans would destroy the orcs, their revenge would be complete.

...and he would never bend his knees to the pale-skinned weaklings. _Never_.

Garrosh stared down at the chest containing the Sha of Pride’s heart. He remembered this. He had taken the power into himself. Go’el, Jaina, Varian, Vol’jin, and Garona -- and some other force -- had broken into his chamber. They had fought. He had lost. He would have died twisted and distorted instead of pure. It would have been worthwhile -- a part of him still believed it would be -- if he had won, but he had lost.

 _Where is Kairoz?_ he wondered as he hefted _Gorehowl_ in one hand, gripping it tightly. He could see his own expression -- bitter, angry, afraid -- mirrored in the blade’s edge. _What is he waiting for?_

“ _Garrosh_ ,” said Go’el as he entered, just as expected. He hadn’t realized how little time it had taken for the Sha to infect and consume him. Garrosh looked up, and there it was, the angry, resolute, disappointed expression. It made him burn with fury to see it. “You have gone too far. We are here to stop you.”

Garrosh could see the others, Varian and Jaina, Vol’jin and Garona, just as expected, and a brief flash of blue from another… but more importantly, he could see tiny motes of light floating around the chamber. If Go’el noticed, or any of the others did, he gave no sign. The motes drifted and rested on the floor. After a moment, as Go’el moved towards him, he could see that the motes were not light at all… they were grains of falling sand.

He wanted to laugh.

“No,” Garrosh whispered harshly. “You aren’t. You won’t ever stop me. You won’t even find me.” He lifted his head and bellowed. “Now!”

The sand, accumulating far faster than Garrosh could have believed, rose into the air, whipped into a gale by some unseen wind. He saw Jaina cast a spell, and it moved as slowly as though it were trapped in syrup. Garrosh could see the strings of vibrant purple light twist and form into arcane words, far too slowly to reach him. He could see Garona, leaping to strike him and caught as though in amber, moving only inch by slow inch.

The moment stretched, and Garrosh could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears frenetically before the sandstorm that had engulfed the room burst.

There was darkness, and then, light.

~ * ~

_Reaping Season, Year 204, Wor’var Village_

It was rare to have a meeting such as this, especially in the heart of a clan’s territory: a half-dozen chieftains sat together around a great, roaring fire. It cast the faces of those present into dual masks of light and shadow. Typically, the only time orcs met with those of different clans was on the field of battle. A handful of individuals, considered more stupid than clever, had made friends with those outside their clans.

This meeting was to change that, or so Gul’dan had claimed.

The middle-aged orc wore robes that were so dark a violet they seemed black, embroidered with white moons and stars, as was the tradition of the Shadowmoon Clan. Some had claimed he had not performed their rituals in many moons. Crouched at his side was a young woman, small still despite being in her late teenaged years. Her hair was drawn back from her face, but could not quite hide that it was silky instead of coarse, no more than she could hide the fact that her eyes were rounder, grey, and more expressive when her features were not shuttered. Clad in black leathers, there was little doubt as to what she was: assassin, killer from the shadows. She watched Gul’dan’s back, and he commanded her without hesitation to murder.

Near to them were the contingent of Blackrock, watching Gul’dan’s killer warily. Urzkal Blackhand, chieftain of the northern clan, had brought all three of his children with him. The twins were Rend and Maim, and not unlike their names, they did not indicate much in the way of brilliance or independent thought. Rend was a brutal warrior, effective through raw strength rather than force of brilliance, and Maim seemed to be a faint shadow of his slightly older sibling, his movements identical, a half-step behind. Blackhand’s youngest child, his daughter Griselda, stood back from the others, half-hidden in shadow. Unlike Garona, it was not because she was an assassin or a spy, but instead because she wished desperately she could disappear. At her side stood her bodyguard, her clansman Orgrim Doomhammer, and as she was small, shy, the only metal she wore the bodice of her grey dress with long skirts and flowing sleeves, he was large and bulky, clad in black and gold trimmed armour, a huge, spiked mace ever at his side. He spoke to her softly, protective and reassuring to her timidity and vulnerability.

Seated next to them was the Iron Wolf, or so he preferred to be called, clad in furs and leather, despite the warmth of Nagrand’s night air, surrounded by a handful of Thunderlord warriors, all female. They all wore masks, concealing their expressions, even as they addressed him in low voices, with a bright green hand on arm or thigh. These must have been the Iron Wolf’s mates, then, and perhaps the oldest and most trusted of his daughters. That was of no surprise, the Thunderlord liked to travel in packs, or perhaps prides, with a single hunter being the center of attention for, as well as being managed and controlled by, women.

Next to the Thunderlord were the Bleeding Hollow contingent, the Chieftain of Zeth’Gol carrying his son, Jorin, in a swaddling basket. Kilrogg Deadeye carried his son everywhere with him, and would continue to do so until he was large enough and strong enough to toddle, and avoid burning himself on his mother’s vast cauldrons. Karris Hears-the-Trees was deeply immersed in her brewing, and so remained behind in Tanaan. Kilrogg’s sole eye darted from face to face, taking in those who had come to this gathering.

Across from him, Kargath grinned at him, showing off yellowed tusks. “Does the boy want a new hand? I know where to get several nice ones.”

Kilrogg growled at him, and put a shielding hand over Jorin’s face. “Do not joke, arena-bait. If he will lose anything, it will be an eye to the Seeking and nothing more.”

The grin became more of a baring of teeth: Kargath, called Bladefist, was the Chieftain of the Shattered Hand, a motley crew of ex-slaves from the Gordunni arenas, many of whom had been discarded when they had been maimed. Most would have been useless, but not Kargath, and not those who had followed him. Instead, he had ordered them to replace missing hands with weapons or tools, and his own left hand bore a huge, curved blade that attached to his wrist in a fist-cuff, his signature Bladefist. It bore the signature work of Urzkal Blackhand, shaped from northern ore and fired in heat hotter than any campfire. Those warriors that Kargath had brought with him were similarly maimed, and a handful of ex-slaves, who had been assigned outside of the arena and bore their scars within, served them drink with two good hands that only trembled faintly when they strayed too near the other encampments.

The largest contingent of warriors present was that of the Warsong. This meeting of minds had been called on Warsong land, after all, and it was the Warsong who oversaw the gathering, even though it was Gul’dan who had called them here, to this place, in the shadow of Oshu’gun. Warsong warriors paced the outskirts of the meeting, some playing drums or chanting softly, always in motion, eyes always on the Spirit Mountain, their swirling, whirling tattoos and old scars gleaming in the moonslight.

Grommash Hellscream, grandson of Drakatha, Chieftain of the Warsong clan, surveyed his fellow chieftains with no small amount of amusement, and more, he saw who was _not_ here: Garad, chieftain of the Frostwolves, known to detest the Thunderlord for the death of his second son, Fenris. Ner’zhul and Rulkan, leaders of the Shadowmoon Clan, parents of a dozen children, many of whom had been lost in other conflicts, or to the dangers of even soft Shadowmoon Valley’s living. Gul’dan had been Ner’zhul’s apprentice once, and they had parted on bad terms. The Bonechewer, demented. The Earthmaw, fanatical. The Burning Blade, hidebound by rules that controlled every tiny aspect of their lives, placing a leash and a collar on superlative warriors. The Laughing Skull, who would likely disagree with the Blackrock simply on principle.

“My fellow Chieftains,” Gul’dan said, rising from his place to stand by the fire. All eyes fell on him, and some of the seated chieftains snorted, Grom among them. Gul’dan frowned at them, but continued. “We have all lived and grown old on Draenor together. We have seen the rise and fall of many moons, studied the stars with--”

“If this is all you have to say, I’m leaving,” Kargath said, annoyed. “Get to the damned point or go suck at Ner’zhul’s teat once more.”

At Gul’dan’s side, the girl assassin stirred, and her master gestured her to stillness with a wave of one hand. “Ah, that famous Bladefist patience, I see. Very well, I will ‘get to the damned point’.” Gul’dan’s gaze moved over each of them, dark eyes catching the firelight that turned them to red. “The ogres are driving us out of our homes. The arakkoa press us into smaller and smaller places. The draenei, presumptuous enough to name themselves after our very world while being strangers to it. The jungles are rife with danger from the saberon and the botani, the mountains with the goren, the gronn, and the magnaron. We are pushed from place to place, our territories shrinking day by day. How long must we tolerate this? How long must we tolerate alien expansion, their farms, their cities. How long must we tolerate invasion, infection, and slavery? I say that we have had enough.”

The Chieftains stirred, and even Kargath looked eager: his clan already took their revenge against the ogres when they could, but Imperator Mar’gok surrounded himself with magic and spellbreakers alike. Little could be done to get within striking distance. Grom bared his teeth: the ogres raided his own people, and the gronn came down from the hills, sweeping away many orcs, including…

“What could you do that we have not already done?” Kilrogg demanded. “Countless shamans have consulted with the spirits and said that we must endure and continue to pit our wits against ogre and arakkoa and draenei alike. What do you know that they do not?”

“Ah, shamans. They are so… limited in their thinking. The power I speak of is not something the shamans would consider worthy of their time or attention, no… this is a power that comes from elsewhere, from the darkness between the stars. I speak… of demons.”

“No!” cried a voice, and Grom turned, grasping his great axe, _Gorehowl_ , passed from his grandmother’s whirling grasp to his father to his own hands, and brandished it.

As the speaker came into the firelight, he bit back a gasp. It was--

~ * ~

For a moment, Garrosh believed Kairoz had lied to him, and taken him to Mulgore. The sky above, velvet with twilight, was unbroken by streams of fuchsia and navy. He could see two moons clearly, one great and white and the other smaller and red. There was no third object in the sky, no blasted Draenor, dead and decaying in the distance. There were no floating islands, no waterfalls sprouting from between rocks and falling down into nothingness.

Where was Garadar, his home from his tiny, squalling youth to the day Thrall had come and upended his life entire? Where was Sunspring Outpost, Aggra’s old home? Where was Halaa, disputed for years. Where was Oshu’gun? The object jutting from the great plains could not have been the mountain that Geyah had travelled to honour year after year. It was too false, too metallic, like the pieces of a ruined ship instead of a mountain of crystal and grey rock. What was the structure that rose in the distance, hard to make out in darkness, but seeming to be a vast fortress. Why was there a sprawling encampment where there should have been ruins? Why were there only hills where there should have been buildings, banners waving like an invitation to be stolen, to dare.

“Where am I?” Garrosh breathed, the question coming out softer and more fearful than he’d meant. He clutched at _Gorehowl_ tightly, the piercings on his arms biting deeply. He did not relax. He didn’t dare.

“Nagrand, on a Draenor like and unlike your own,” Kairoz whispered, and Garrosh turned to look at him with a start. Instead of an elf, the dragon had taken on the likeness of an orc, not wholly unlike himself, though instead of bone or hide or even metal, he wore the same black and gold robes, altered in subtle ways to seem more orcish. The change did not comfort Garrosh. If anything, it made him more unsettled.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” he hissed. “You didn’t tell me you could change forms like that.”

“The things you don’t know could fill a library,” Kairoz replied. “I am Karro now. The people of Draenor will not accept an elf among them. This will do well enough.”

Garrosh growled at him. “Where is he? Where is my father? When is this?”

“Grommash Hellscream sits just ahead, in Wor’var, at a meeting of chieftains. A meeting you will have heard of, surely, for Gul’dan himself has called it.” Kairoz’ eyes gleamed brightly in the moonslight, and Garrosh swore.

 _It must be the day Gul’dan poisoned the orcs!_ he thought frantically and began to run, shifting his grip on _Gorehowl_ to avoid injury. _Not now, I need to be whole right now._

He let the horror from the old tales fill his mind, lending strength and speed to his legs. It had been a long time since he had run across the plains of Nagrand, a different kind of fear dogging his steps. He knew the story, of course. Thrall had told him, his father’s friends had told him, and he’d known the tale before he’d ever set foot outside of Garadar:

_Gul’dan will offer them the demonic poison. He’ll offer and my father will accept, and the orcs will be corrupted. Green Draenor will become barren and dead, just like the land around the Dark Portal. I have to stop him, to save him from making his greatest mistake._

There were guards at the edges of the village. Sentries. Garrosh didn’t bother to address them, only to rush past them. Slowly, too slowly, they gave chase, and after only a few moments, he had left them behind. _Kairoz’ work? It doesn’t matter._

A group of orcs sat ringed around a great fire, men and women, watching the one standing at the fireside. This orc was older and clad in heavy black robes with stars picked out against the darkness. He was hooded, and his tusks were worn and cracked. He leaned on a staff, and Garrosh was briefly contemptuous of the speaker’s weakness, and then repulsed as he understood who it must be, who it happened to be. Now he was close enough to hear the speaker’s words clearly:

“Ah, shamans. They are so… limited in their thinking. The power I speak of is not something the shamans would consider worthy of their time or attention, no… this is a power that comes from elsewhere, from the darkness between the stars. I speak… of demons.”

“No!” Garrosh cried, and the orcs turned on him, and one, as swift as the whirlwind, stood, his hands gripping an identical axe to the one he held. Garrosh stepped forward, closer, to better see this warrior, wanting his first glimpse to be a good one. The other warrior bit back a gasp.

“Who… are you?” the warrior demanded. “How do you have _Gorehowl_?”

“My name is Garrosh Hellscream,” he replied. “I have _Gorehowl_ because I inherited it from my father. Grommash Hellscream. You.”


	2. Chapter 1: Late Autumn, Year 37, Orgrimmar

_ "Now!” _

As time reasserted itself, the first thing that greeted them was an explosion of purple as Jaina's spell dispersed on the floor of Grommash Hold, and she cursed. Thrall -- Go'el -- stumbled forward, bringing his hammer down to rest on the ground. Varian and Garona shook their heads hard with a nearly identical gesture, as though driving water from their ears. Vol'jin crouched down, and leaned on one of his totems heavily. Kalecgos, in his mortal form, swatted at the air, blinking and looking around.

"Where is he?" Jaina asked, her voice soft and angry. "Where's Garrosh?"

"He was here," Go'el said, and took a step back at the look on her face. "We saw him clearly, and now he's not. Could he have been teleported away?"

"Garrosh be no mage, and he hates them lots," Vol'jin said. "But I be no expert."

"There's an easy enough way to find out," Kalec murmured, and offered Jaina his hand. "My love?"

Jaina nodded once, and took it, her expression softening a fraction. From between their hands, arcane magic bloomed, forming like the trunk of a tree and branching off in a thousand directions, filling the room with a soft purple glow. Their eyes, a near-identical purple, glowed brightly for a moment and then faded. "No teleportation or magical portal was opened here. Not of that kind, at any rate."

Kalecgos nodded, and looked to Go'el. "Thrall?"

 _Not Thrall, Go'el,_ he thought automatically, and knelt down, placing his hands on the ground. He opened his senses, and immediately he was assaulted by the sound of wailing elementals. _We saw the so-called Dark Shaman when we entered the city -- as if such were anything other than warlocks by a different name -- and they bragged the elements would not help me here... and they weren't wrong._ "No elemental magic," he said. "No spirits linger here, they have been driven out."

"No fel magic either," Garona noted as Go'el stood carefully. "I'd sense it, and for all his faults, Garrosh didn't court demons. Not yet."

"Not yet," Vol'jin agreed. "And the loa be gone too, quit of this place. All I be hearing is the screams of the dead."

"As well they should be," Jaina said, shaking with anger. "You saw what the city was like. You saw the streets!"

"I did," Vol'jin said wearily. "And it be my people crucified in the streets just as much as yours. Same with the goblins."

"Monstrous," Varian said, the look on his face dark. "Like animals. Turning on their own allies, polluting the land--"

"Don't condemn the entirety of the orc race -- or the Horde -- as you are prone to do for the faults of a few," Go'el said, angry. "You're so quick to judge people that don't share your race." Both Jaina and Varian drew themselves up, swelling with anger. Go'el looked at Vol'jin and Garona, and the latter was standing so close to the shadows that they clung to her. Garona crossed her arms, and pressed her lips together.

"Are you blind?!" Jaina cried, the first dam to break. "This isn't some kind of misunderstanding! This was a deliberate effort. Garrosh _murdered_ people. The Horde sheltered him! _You_ sheltered him!”

“Neither the Horde nor I are responsible for Garrosh’s many misdeeds,” Go’el declared. “Garrosh made those decisions on his own, and my dream for the Horde--”

“That dream is _dead_ along with my _city_!” Jaina cried. “You knew what he would do, you saw it. In Northrend, during the _mak'gora_! You had a chance to stop him and you failed, and just look at what’s happened! The Horde was a mistake, and it should be torn apart and remade.”

 _No!_ Thrall cried in his heart. _You can’t take it from me!_

“No,” said Varian, and Go’el and Jaina both blinked at him. “We can’t alienate the Horde entirely.” The human smiled, and something about it caused the hairs on the back of Go’el’s neck to stand up. “We’d need to monitor them closely in one place. Ideally, this city, since it’s so large.” Varian glanced around. “But if we can assign guards to watch over them for any suspicious behaviour--”

“You would put them into _prison camps_ ,” Go’el snarled. “You would rip families apart and destroy the culture and heritage of people who have barely reclaimed it, or you would incarcerate them in their own city after they fought to free it from a tyrant! I will not allow it!”

“The way you ‘wouldn’t allow’ the invasion of Theramore to happen again?” Jaina demanded, turning on him. “The way you ‘wouldn’t allow’ Garrosh to run rampant over Kalimdor? Have you seen what was _done_ to Ashenvale? To Stonetalon? That’s not even speaking of Southshore.”

“Killing more people will not bring back the dead!” Go’el cried, and Thrall cried with him. “I can hear the screaming of the spirits just as Vol’jin can. I saw people -- my people -- bleeding and dying in the streets, just as you did. They don’t deserve to be punished for Garrosh.”

“They aren’t your people any more, are they?” Varian pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest. “You left the Horde, you abandoned it. You left Garrosh in charge, and this is what he did with it.”

“Fine words from someone who left a _dragon_ in charge of your city,” Thrall snarled. “How much trouble did Onyxia cause, again, exactly?”

“Well, since we’re standing in the heart of _your_ city, surrounded by _your_ dying citizens, why don’t you tell me, _orc_?” Varian demanded. “The orcs would be lucky to survive with strict supervision, since they clearly can’t live moral lives on their own.”

“They would rather _die_ than live in such a manner!”

“You _don’t_ speak for the orcs any longer,” Jaina pointed out.

“Maybe I should.” Go’el’s chest heaved, as though he’d run across the Barrens, and he looked between the humans. Both of them looked gobsmacked, rage flickering behind the purple depths of Jaina’s gaze, while Varian seemed confused by the very notion. “Deathwing is dead. I am no longer needed to travel the world to stabilize it. The Horde needs a leader--”

“What, so you can abandon them again? So you can unilaterally appoint another leader that will tear the world to pieces?”

“Somehow, I suspect the Horde were not the only ones to act in that manner. I’ve _seen_ the Barrens and Westfall, Jaina, and--”

“You have no right to make demands,” Varian said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest, and straightening in an attempt to match Go’el’s height. “You have no right to judge presiding rulers when you abandoned that duty yourself."

"My people need me," Thrall said, urgent, and glanced towards Garona and Vol'jin, and it was as much to them he spoke as it was to Jaina and Varian. "You repeat that I have abandoned my people, and when I say I want to return to them, you deny me. You accuse me of not having the right, but what gives _you_ the right to stop me?"

"The blood of the citizens of Theramore," Jaina spat. "The blood of the fallen, the blood of all of his victims. You don't want to lead, you want to avoid facing the consequences of your actions."

Go'el's gaze went to Jaina wildly. "I don't--"

Garona's presence, for as long as he had known her, was one created out of absence. Silent as shadows and more at home in darkness than she was in light, he could nonetheless find her even in the worst circumstances, even in wild Outland, even in spirit-blasted Northrend, even here. So he didn't need to take his gaze from the human woman to feel her presence leave, walking out on the discussion.

 _She can't leave,_ Thrall thought, panicked. _She can't go. I need--_

"No," Varian said, firm. "We will find a better leader... amongst the Horde, to safeguard and watch over the orcs, as I suggested." Go'el made a soft, snarling noise at the hint of smugness that had come over Varian's features. "What are our options?"

"Well, if ya be wantin' an orc," Vol'jin began slowly. "Varok's always been solid. Dependable. He be old, though, an' he been badly injured in the fightin'. Eitrigg's older, an' while he be tryin' to advise Garrosh with not much luck, his heart be with the Argent Crusade now, and his brotha, Tirion Fordring."

Varian's expression soured. "Are there not more orcs to choose from than two? No women of great wisdom?"

"There were plenty of wise women," Go'el snapped. "And there are many still. They're simply more often than not in charge of communities and retreats for the elderly. Or they are traveling and constantly on the move. Do not doubt their intelligence."

"Wise women, like Zaela?" Jaina asked, lip curling.

"No, like Sergra, with whom you were _friends_ once," Go'el shot back, and Jaina looked away.

"Movin' on from orcs," Vol'jin said, clearing his throat. "We got Baine or Hamuul. Nara's bright, but she be young. Baine's not much older, but his dad be their previous chieftain, so he took up the mantle. After all that’s happened, it be unlikely he’ll have time to run the Horde. Thunder Bluff’s still reelin’ from all that’s happened, and Hamuul and Malfurion be havin’ their work cut out for ‘em with the druids after Staghelm made that big mess.”

Varian frowned. “Weren’t there tauren involved with the original transfer of leadership within Orgrimmar?”

“Magatha Grimtotem tricked Garrosh into poisoning Cairne during their _mak'gora_ ,” Go’el said, weary and sad at once. “Which disturbed Garrosh’s sense of honour.”

“When someone is in a death duel, if they die from blade or poison, does it really matter?” Varian asked, frowning. He glanced at Jaina. “Didn’t Garrosh also proclaim his innocence regarding that matter in Ashenvale as, ‘if I had had elves murdered brutally, I would have bragged about it'?”

“Yes,” Jaina said, her own tone venomous. “Truly the sign of a great and noble leader.”

“...in any case, the tauren be less fond of cities than the rest of the Horde,” Vol’jin said, wary. “Then, we be havin’ Sylvanas, of the Forsaken--”

“No,” Varian said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“--and Lor’themar Theron, of the Blood Elves--”

“Never!” Jaina hissed. “Not after he sheltered the Sunreavers!”

“--and Gallywix, of the Bilgewater goblins.”

“I wouldn’t put Gallywix in charge of anything I cared about,” Go’el noted. “He’s greedy and selfish.”

“Which be why you let him lead the Bilgewater after the destruction of their homeland,” Vol’jin replied, his voice paper-dry. Go’el looked away, flushing with shame. “An’ then, there be the trolls. Shandie stepped down from the Council after Garrosh took charge. She be retired now, with Jes. From what she be tellin’ me when I visit, they be sittin’ on the beaches of Durotar, drinkin’ fruit smoothies an’ judgin’ people together.”

“Jes’rimmon left too?” asked Go’el, blinking. “Who’s running the Shattered Hand?”

“Nobody be,” Vol’jin said, shrugging. “Who wanted to spy on the Horde for Garrosh? He had his own agents, controlled by Malkorok. They be dead now, probably. If Garona don’t find them, the Shattered Hand will."

"Didn't you say that the Shattered Hand was gone?" Varian asked, frowning. "Why would they be doing anything?"

"Nah," Vol'jin said. "I be sayin' that Jes isn't directin' 'em. Just means the agents are usin' their discretion."

"And we should trust these agents, why?" Varian demanded. "Considering the history regarding the Horde and assassins."

 _Would you have dared say that around Garona_? Go'el wondered, even as his heart ached. _Considering all she did to make this even possible?_

"I dunno, do you trust Shaw and his agents not to be psychopaths and murderers if they be off the leash?" Vol'jin fixed the human king with a cold look. "Did you trust Garona when she got us inside, or do you only be holdin' onto your hate whenever it be convenient?"

It was Varian's turn to look away, and Go'el beamed at Vol'jin. Immediately, the troll witch doctor's gaze skewered him, and he flinched back.

"The trolls tended to be less directly involved with politics," Jaina remarked. "And Deino had all but retired after the death of her brother."

"Some of the others died in the rebellion," Vol'jin said, weary. "We all lost so much with Hellscream drivin' us over the edge. It be not all bad news, though: Vanira's whelpin' now, the twins be thrilled. Zen'tabra be busy too."

"And what about you?" Kalec asked, curious. Immediately, Varian and Jaina fixed their gazes on Vol'jin, and he weathered it patiently. "You are a leader too, one who has wise consorts if you put them before yourself, and you have been here from the beginning of the new Horde."

For a moment, Thrall could smell stale salt air and taste spilled blood. He could hear muffled sobs, or worse, the shocked silence of a people struck by loss. He could feel Sen'jin's dead weight in his arms and see Vol'jin's hollow-eyed stare, Shandie's fingers dug into his elbow, Vanira's shells, rattling in mourning.

_"Come with us."_

_"What choice do we be havin'? There's nothing for us here."_

"You could be trusted to appropriately watch over the orcs and curb their remaining excesses,” Varian said. “Having suffered at their hands.”

“I don’t be interested in vengeance,” Vol’jin noted, wary and tired all at once. “I won’t be used as your prison warden.”

“Of course not,” Varian said, smoothing out the edges of his voice in just such a manner that Thrall bristled. “I’m just saying that you won’t be biased--”

“Except in the way you want him to be,” Go’el interrupted. “Not that I believe you would be unfair to _any_ of our people, Vol’jin.”

“Thrall,” Vol’jin said, and the expression on his face made Go’el’s objection to the name die in his throat. “Garrosh stole from my people. He stole the food we managed to grow when the drought hit because we knew how to keep farming and he be clueless. He stole it for the army to fight the humans and the elves. I know unfair. I be knowin’ exactly how unfair people have had it since you made Garrosh the Warchief. I will be the leader of the Horde, but no one be tellin’ me how to manage them. Not you, not Varian… and not Lady Proudmoore neither.”

This brought Go’el’s attention back to the human woman, who looked incensed at being cut out of the conversation, and there was something wild behind her amethyst eyes, something terrible.

“You may have dominion here, but not and never in Dalaran,” Jaina declared. “I’m certain Lor’themar and Aethas will come whining to you for support, but let me assure you, no member of the Horde will be welcome in _my_ city.”

“Lady Proudmoore,” Vol’jin began, but Jaina spun in a whirl of snowflakes and strode out of the room. Go’el watched her go, and Vol’jin and Varian both followed her with their eyes, their expressions difficult to read.

As silence descended, bringing with it weight and discomfort, Kalec murmured, almost to himself, “I believe there’s something gravely the matter with Jaina.” The former dragon Aspect hurried after her.

As one, all three men snorted as if to say, “Obviously.”

~ * ~

_Reaping Season, Year 204, Wor’var Village_

_“No!” Garrosh cried, and the orcs turned on him, and one, as swift as the whirlwind, stood, his hands gripping an identical axe to the one he held. Garrosh stepped forward, closer, to better see this warrior, wanting his first glimpse to be a good one. The other warrior bit back a gasp._

_“Who… are you?” the warrior demanded. “How do you have Gorehowl?”_

_“My name is Garrosh Hellscream,” he replied. “I have Gorehowl because I inherited it from my father. Grommash Hellscream. You.”_

Protest rose up from the others seated, and one or two more rose. Grommash -- Grom -- waved them back abruptly. “How is such a thing possible? I have no son, my mate is dead.”

 _Dead…_ Garrosh thought, his eyes widening. _It’s not as though I’ll ever miss her, but--_ “I’m not from this Draenor, but from another one. It’s--”

“Stop speaking in riddles,” demanded one of the warriors. His skin was white-tan, far paler than proper Warsong brown. He gestured with one great hand and one huge, curved blade.

“Bladefist,” Garrosh snarled. “Stop interrupting and I’ll explain. You waste more words complaining than I do telling the tale.”

This provoked laughter, and Garrosh felt a growl building in his chest. Bladefist, on the other hand, bared his teeth at those laughing, and Garrosh realized that, for once, people were not laughing at _him_. “Fine,” Kargath snapped. “But hurry it up.”

“I come from a different Draenor,” Garrosh began. “By the time of my earliest memories, it had already been shattered, and my home had been blasted from Draenor’s surface. The stories say that much of the world was dying before that time, torn apart by portals summoned by a desperate madman.” He glanced at the warriors, trying to determine if one might be Ner’zhul. _I should warn them about him too, but this is more important. It all starts here._

"I can hardly imagine such a thing," Grom murmured. "How did it happen?"

"Demons," Garrosh snarled. "Demons and warlocks. There are no greater traitors to our people, our race, than they."

Shouts came again, and Garrosh was gratified by their volume. Gul'dan -- it must have been Gul'dan -- looked startled, and very briefly, afraid.

"Do you honestly believe this... this _stranger_?" Gul'dan demanded. "He comes here uninvited and starts throwing around accusations! He could be of the Burning Blade, or one of the other, lesser clans sent to disrupt--"

"If... if I may speak." Garrosh and Grom turned as one towards the voice. Garrosh didn't recognize the woman speaking, and barely recognized her as an orc. Instead of boldly meeting his gaze, she had her head bowed, and her hair fell in soft waves. Her dress was cloth save for a metal corset, and even that only truly covered her abdomen up to under her breasts. "Please."

"Griselda Blackhand," Grom acknowledged, and glanced towards a pair of warriors clad in dark armor, the first with an angry scowl on his face, the second calm and alert as he stood at Griselda's shoulder. "Go ahead."

"The craftsmanship of _Gorehowl_ is unique, is it not?" she asked, her voice still soft, though she dared glance up. "As the weapon passed through the hands of many Warsong chieftains since its creation. If our... our visitor was simply sent by another clan, the weapon he bears would only be a poor copy of the true weapon, and not a match for it." She met Garrosh's eyes, and then looked back down at her hands. "I think."

Grom looked weary, as though exhausted by hearing the woman ramble. "Urzkal?"

"She may have an idea," grumbled the angry orc, and Garrosh realized this must be Blackhand the Destroyer of legend. He had not expected him to be bald, nor his face to be pocked with scars from the forge. "Let her take a look, Hellscream."

Griselda looked up, startled and then fearful. The calm warrior placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled reassuringly. "I have your tools, Gris," he said, his voice gentle. "Here you are."

"Thank you, Orgrim," Griselda replied, and gave him a little smile. Garrosh felt a prickle of unease as the warrior smiled back.

 _That can't... but I recognize that armour, that weapon... can this truly be Orgrim Doomhammer? Thrall's mentor?_ He watched as Orgrim presented Griselda with a pouch and she poked through it, picking up one unrecognizable item and then another before closing it up again. _Maybe that's why Thrall is so soft, and the orcs lost the war._

Griselda stepped forward, and gestured to Garrosh and Grom.They placed the axes down on the ground, and Griselda arranged her skirts before kneeling in the dirt. She used her tools to tap each axe, producing identical eerie vibrating howls, tested the blades on pieces of her skirt, and took tiny scrapings from the haft of each before nodding. "They're largely identical, though there is one tiny factor that makes them different."

"Well?" Gul'dan demanded, and she flinched back before standing. "What is it?"

"G-Garrosh's weapon is older," she stammered. "There's slightly more wear. Which makes sense since it comes from... from..."

"Well?"

"The future," she blurted out. "A future where you ruin everything."

Gul'dan lunged at her, and Orgrim stepped between them in an instant, grabbing the older orc's arm and breaking it with a loud snap. Gul'dan howled at him in anger, and clawed at his hand with his good arm. Orgrim's expression, once kind, was as unyielding as stone, as steel.

"How... how _dare_?! Garona--" Gul'dan twisted, and Garrosh caught sight of the way his eyes widened, of the horror that replaced the anger and pain.

"The Halfbreed has never been known to be loyal," Garrosh said, and snatched up _Gorehowl_. "Can we continue?"

"Yes," said one of the warriors. "I have a question."

"Do you recognize the Iron Wolf?" Grom asked, and then said, "Go ahead."

"How did you travel from this broken Draenor to our whole one?" the Iron Wolf asked. A mask concealed most of his features, but from the way he leaned back against a leather pack and that one of the women with him, also wearing a mask, was leaning against his shoulder as he kept his arm around her, hand in her lap, he seemed unconcerned by the proceedings. "I wasn't aware shamans could walk more than this land and the land of the ancestors."

"The answer to that question," said Kairoz from behind Garrosh. "Is time travel. It's fascinating to see the changes and differences in a practical sense, rather than a mere theoretical one."

"This is... Karro," Garrosh said, and added reluctantly, "He is a friend. He brought me here from my own timeline, though not my own Draenor."

"Not Draenor?" Grom asked. "Then where are you from?"

"Perhaps Garrosh had better tell you the rest," Kairoz said smoothly, and stood off to one side. Even in the guise of an orc, he had elven mannerisms: he cocked his head to the side as he listened to the murmuring warriors, and folded his hands just so, his gaze lingering on the shadows first, then the Iron Wolf, then Griselda, and finally, Orgrim Doomhammer.

"Before I was born, on a night like this one, Gul'dan tricked the orcs into invading another world called Azeroth," Garrosh said. "Draenor was dying, and he tempted them with untold riches from another world, and the weak, soft warriors that protected it. A human traitor named Medivh, a demon wearing a human's skin, spoke to him across the Twisting Nether. The orcs of that Draenor agreed, though some remained behind during the invasion. Through trickery, the humans nearly won out, and Gul'dan used it to entrap the orcs, to poison them with the blood of demons themselves." Garrosh spat into the fire and it sparked. "It polluted them and drove them mad."

Blackhand snorted. “They must have been weak to have fallen for such a trick.”

“You were one of them,” Garrosh snarled. “You were at the forefront until you were slain and another took your place. You didn’t even get to see the first great conquest.”

Blackhand moved to stand, growling. “You dare--”

“Urzkal, enough,” Grom warned. “You’re a guest in these lands. What happened next, Garrosh?”

Garrosh flushed with pride at being addressed, and put his most commanding bark into it. “The new leader was better, but he was still manipulated by Gul’dan. He led the Horde through great victories and embarrassing defeats, but the worst one came on the cusp of victory. They were assaulting a great human stronghold and Gul’dan and his followers abandoned the Horde. The Horde was too weakened by this to succeed, and fell back. They were abandoned by their faithless, non-orcish allies and eventually their leader was defeated and dragged back to the human stronghold in chains.”

“Who was this leader?” Orgrim asked, his voice mild, even as he held the thrashing Gul’dan fast. “It sounds as though he did much, even if he fell short of final conquest.”

“You,” Garrosh said, and Orgrim blinked in confusion. “I did not know you, but I do not think you are the same warrior.”

“To be tricked by Gul’dan, or to be a Chieftain?” Orgrim murmured, even as Blackhand growled at him. “In any case, you’re correct. What happened to me -- him -- next?”

“You were kept jailed in the human stronghold until you escaped,” Garrosh said. “You tried to rally the orcs, but failed. You’re no shaman, and the orcs had lost their shamanistic heritage. The spirits had forsaken them after they turned to the demons, though the warlocks always claimed they’d done so before. When the Dark Portal was closed permanently by the humans, the orcs remaining on Azeroth grew weak and sick, and were collected up to die in pens, or so the humans hoped.” Garrosh snorted.

“I do not care much for these humans,” Grom remarked. “What was I doing at this time?”

“You remained on Draenor for the initial assault, protecting the clan and the Portal both,” Garrosh said. “You were with the second assault, bringing victory to the Horde on Azeroth again until you were abandoned and trapped on Azeroth with the majority of the orcs. We never met then.”

“Who was I bowing to at that time?” Grom asked. He thumbed at Orgrim. “Him? Gul’dan?”

“No, Gul’dan was dead, torn apart by the demons he hoped to control, and Doomhammer was captured. Ner’zhul was the one who gave you orders, Ner’zhul and his “death knights”.”

“Ner’zhul? That useless old stargazer?” Gul’dan burst out. “I’m surprised you could get him out of bed.” Orgrim gave him a hard shake, and he fell silent.

“Ner’zhul was ordered by the demons to attack Azeroth again, but he was treacherous too. He used warriors to obtain a number of artifacts and then used those artifacts to open up countless portals. The humans only succeeded in isolating us while the world was torn to pieces. This placed survived, though. Oshu’gun kept us safe. I was born… not far from here. Garadar.”

The Iron Wolf made a noise of contempt, and Garrosh glared at him until he was calm.

"For the most part, clan structure had entirely broken down, and we banded together in Garadar. Rather than being Warsong or Bleeding Hollow or Thunderlord, we were the Mag'har again. We fought with the Draenei when we needed to, but for the most part we were safe while Greatmother Geyah mended our bond with the elements and taught her... apprentice. Not me. I'm no shaman."

"Oh? Did she find yet another child inadequate for her needs?" the Iron Wolf asked, and now the other chieftains were staring at him. He flicked his fingers, dismissive. "I want to hear what the other orcs were doing. No one needs to be treated to a tale of harvesting _gresht_ and bowing down to a mountain."

Garrosh sneered at him, but moved on. "As I said, the weakened orcs were kept in Camps. Doomhammer could not rally them, for he was no shaman either, but he did find one who could. When Gul'dan offered the demon blood, only one chieftain refused.” This last statement was met with some anticipation from the orcs, and Garrosh regretted that he could not speak his father’s name. “That chieftain was Durotan of the Shadow Wolves."


End file.
